


And Only Us

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Arguing, Caretaking, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: Charlie returns from Maranzano and Meyer returns from Havana. Both are more wounded than when they last saw each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 5x01: Golden Days for Boys and Girls

Weariness hangs heavy in his bones as he fumbles with the key. It’s late, it’s dark, and though he’s downed a few drinks, it hasn’t dulled the throb in his hand. The sharp sting has quieted, but the ache still ripples and thrums and drains him. It sure doesn’t feel like victory. 

But he still manages to fit the key into the lock with his left hand, at least. 

The suite is dark; he swats at the wall in search of light. He removes his hat by the door, tugs at the knot in his tie, pulls out his lighter—and the ashtray stops him dead. He freezes when he sees it, empty though he hasn’t bothered to clean and sitting on the opposite side of the end table. 

The air in the suite turns electric, buzzing with fear and adrenaline as he crosses the room as quietly as he can. Charlie swallows. It was probably just the hotel staff earlier, sending someone up to clean… 

He slides one hand into his jacket, pressing his palm against the grip of his gun. He doesn’t draw, but he’s ready, as he moves around the suite. He checks every corner, every shadow. The living room is empty, but he still feels it. Someone. 

Spring-coiled and ready, he turns toward the bedroom. He flings the door open with a snap—Oh. 

With relief, Charlie sighs and drops his hand from the gun. “You’re back,” he says. It’s part fact and part forced nonchalance that’s meant to sting. 

“I am,” Meyer replies, curt. 

He’s sitting perched on the edge of the bed; Charlie hates that he looks almost out of place with stiff arms and hands curled tight over his knees. There’s a suitcase sitting at his feet. Under other circumstances, he might have felt pleased that Meyer came to see him first. But he doesn’t. 

“Benny called,” Meyer says and Charlie’s sure he doesn’t imagine the hint of accusation. “He said everything went according to plan.” 

“It did.” Charlie says nothing else as he moves around the room, occupying himself with anything that isn’t looking at Meyer. He keeps his hand in his pocket, out of sight. 

“I thought you might call,” Meyer says, “to tell me.” 

Charlie shrugs. “Why?” 

Meyer laughs in a way that isn’t funny. “Is that a question?” 

At a loss for something to spit in response, Charlie turns his back, which is enough of an answer. He fumbles with the curtain, trying to tug it closed with his left hand. It catches on the rod, but still he yanks and yanks and fumbles.  “You were busy with other things. Cuba. Figured it didn’t matter,” he tells the curtains. 

“Charlie…” 

He’s not biting the way Charlie wants. “What?” he snaps, hoping Meyer will take the bait but fearing the tug on the end of the line. 

But instead, Meyer is silent. Far down, in the distance, Charlie can hear the faint motor of a few passing cars. It’s late enough that the streets are mostly empty, with only a few stragglers like the murmur of a winding stream. Charlie gives a forceful tug and the curtains close. He stays facing them, gripping them, wondering what they’d say in the lobby if he ripped them down. 

Finally, Meyer sighs as though years have passed. “Must we do this every time? It’s business, Charlie, I had to—”

“It couldn’t have waited? Till this was over?” 

Meyer answers in measured tones, but his patience comes with a warning that Charlie doesn’t abide. “We planned it all out. I didn’t think there was any need—”

“And if it went wrong? And you’re a whole country away, what then?” he demands, losing control the more Meyer gains it. 

“If it went wrong, I don’t see what my being in New York would have done to help,” Meyer says dryly. 

“That ain’t the point!” Charlie shouts. His voice rings against the ceiling. 

The temperature drops. Meyer’s voice is sharpened steel, precise, controlled, just one quick slice through him. “Then what _is_ , Charlie?” 

Charlie swallows, teetering on the edge and knowing they need only a little push, just a little further. His hand aches and it burns to meet Meyer’s gaze, but he can’t look away, can’t admit defeat. He’s tired of the hurt, and maybe he can make Meyer feel it too or maybe Meyer can hurt him more, but either way he’s not thinking—just pressing, pressing, digging the wound until it stings to make it feel better. It doesn’t, but it’s all he has. 

Except, Charlie’s out of biting words. Well, he isn’t. He’s got plenty tucked away, a secret shame of anger that’s been building all week. But he knows Meyer can refute every last one, knows how childish he would be to even say it. So he stays silent, lowers his gaze, and moves towards Meyer without meeting his eye. He drops into a chair opposite, deliberately avoiding the bed. Clumsily, he unties the laces of his shoes with one hand and kicks them off with a toe on the heel. 

“Guess I just thought…” he mumbles at the carpet, unable to let it pass. “Thought what we was buildin’ here was most important. That’s all.” He looks at the suitcase instead of Meyer; he’s got somebody else waiting for him, someplace else. Always something else. 

Meyer exhales an incredulous laugh that chills the air it touches. “And I thought we were going to leave behind the small-minded dons who can’t see beyond their own city block.” 

“Hey!” Charlie’s head snaps up at the accusation and he glares from under creased brow. “That ain’t the same! It ain’t—I’m—” But Meyer is, unfortunately, as right as ever. He sighs, shifting back in the chair and sliding his hands over its arms. “I don’t mean it like that.” 

“I figured as much,” Meyer answers curtly. 

Charlie chews the inside of his cheek, half-scowling, half-sulking, as he stares past Meyer’s shoulder to the far corner of the room. “Did Benny tell you he was late?” 

Meyer sniffs. “He neglected to mention. Did that present an issue?” 

There’s genuine concern in his voice and it’s with great reluctance that Charlie shifts, looks down, and answers, “No.” It meant that much more of his life spent with Masseria, but that didn’t matter anymore. He was done. 

Graciously, Meyer doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he asks stiffly, “And Maranzano?” 

Charlie shrugs. “Fuckin’ asshole.” 

“Well we knew that.” There’s almost amusement in his voice, but it gives way to sobriety too soon. “With Masseria gone, is he concerned?” 

“Don’t seem it,” Charlie answers in a clipped voice. “Too busy pattin’ himself on the back.” 

“Himself?” But the question answers itself with a noise of understanding. They both know what Maranzano is like, what they’re all like. 

They lapse into silence that might be comfortable under other circumstances. Charlie’s never paid so much attention to the wallpaper in his own suite. There’s something eating away at his stomach, but it’s not Meyer. Masseria’s bullet-lacerated body didn’t stop it. The crane in his neck and twinge in his knees as he stared up at Maranzano didn’t help. Meyer’s here, he’s back, but Charlie still feels the absence, some missing piece from the fragment of days without him. 

“Charlie?” There’s an edge to his voice that’s sharp as a blade. 

He sucks air between his teeth before answering with a flat, “What?” 

“What happened to your hand?” Immediately Charlie realizes the sharpness isn’t meant for him; it’s someone else Meyer is trying to cut. There’s a city ripped apart in a question, a simple tone demanding answers from forces he’ll call down to earth with nothing but inflection. 

Charlie shifts. He tugs the sleeve of his jacket lower, hoping to hide the russet-stained handkerchief wrapped tight over his palm. “S’nothin’,” Charlie says, in a browbeaten nonchalance reserved for brushing off nothings that are Somethings. “Just got a cut is all, it’s fine.” 

“From what?” 

“From a fuckin’ umbrella, what’d you think? I slipped, alright? Cut my hand a little, it’s _fine_ ,” he snaps with more force than the question warrants, giving himself away with how much he wants to hide. And if there’s something in the fleeting glance he gives Meyer—hurt, anger, _what do you care anyway_ , in a stare that tries to be hard but wavers with too much emotion—well, who’s to say. 

“Come here.” It isn’t a question. 

But Charlie doesn’t move. He draws his shoulders up towards his ears and stares at the end table like he didn’t hear a word. 

What he does hear, though, is Meyer getting to his feet and stepping towards him. His shadow crosses through the dim, yellow light and he’s standing over him. Charlie doesn’t look up, but he wants to reach out with unwounded hands and wrap himself tight around Meyer’s waist. Instead, he raises his hand and swallows as Meyer’s fingers brush his skin. He unties the sloppy knot and the blood-soaked handkerchief falls away. 

Charlie glances at Meyer—jaw set and dark eyes shuttered, intent on the wound. The cut is clean, deep, and cutting across his entire palm. But it’s hard to see the gouge with all the dried blood across his hand and fingertips. Drips of crusted blood run down his wrist and along the back of his hand. 

As always, Meyer understands without Charlie needing to say. It’s a good thing too, as Charlie isn’t sure he could. Words seem to have abandoned him entirely, leaving him with nothing but dark eyes that glance at Meyer and dart away.

“Come on,” Meyer says. It still isn’t a question, but it’s softer. Charlie lets Meyer take him by the good hand and lead him into the bathroom. 

He sits on the closed lid of the toilet while Meyer rummages through the medicine cabinet for supplies. Charlie is well-stocked on gauze, leftovers from when he needed it more, though it’s sat untouched in the two years since. He hates the helplessness in his stomach, but he doesn’t mind the concern in Meyer’s eyes when he returns with a wet rag. 

Meyer’s methodical. He cups Charlie’s hand in his palm, diligently washing off blood from too many different veins. Charlie hisses and yanks his hand back at the initial sting. But wordlessly, Meyer brushes his fingers once through his hair, and Charlie finds he can grit his teeth through it. 

For a while, it’s quiet like that. Meyer works on Charlie’s hand, cleaning it and then dressing it. Charlie says nothing at first, interjecting only a curse here and a groan there. 

Meyer turns his back as he cuts a strip of gauze and Charlie watches him, tracing the curve of his shoulders with his eyes, feeling the weight of an apology he can’t bring himself to say. Instead, Charlie mumbles, “Good thing you’re back.” 

He thinks Meyer freezes for just a moment, before answering, “You don’t need me.” 

With surprise, Charlie says emphatically, “Course I do.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m right-handed.” 

Meyer snorts, but there’s something wary in his expression when he turns back around and kneels on the tile. “It wasn’t—” He hesitates, licks his lips, and addresses everything to the cut in Charlie’s hand, rather than meeting his eye. “It’s not that I—” 

“No,” Charlie cuts him off. His good hand squeezes Meyer’s shoulder and lingers, bunching in fabric and finding comfort in the solid texture. “I know. We gotta be turnin’ our sights other places. You’re just takin’ care of things.” He glances at his hand in Meyer’s. “You’re always takin’ care of everything.” 

“Not everything,” Meyer says with too much incrimination. 

Charlie answers by leaning down to kiss that from his lips, to take the blame and put it someplace else. Meyer hadn’t been gone for long, yet it feels like years all the same. Charlie searches for missing pieces with his mouth, fitting together their separate days into a whole picture, into something that makes sense. 

When they break apart, it seems Charlie left behind a faint smile on Meyer’s lips. “You know,” he says, “it’s _very_ difficult to bandage a wound and kiss at the same time.” 

“So stop worryin’ about my hand then,” Charlie answers with a smirk. Meyer returns the look, but he doesn’t stop. He returns to his work until the cut is bound tight behind clean bandages. 

With Charlie’s hand almost as good as new, they both stand. He examines Meyer’s work, studying the careful precision with which he wrapped his hand. It looks better than the wadded up handkerchief that Charlie used; it feels better too. He swallows and brushes Meyer’s waist with clean fingertips. “You oughta be gettin’ home before your wife thinks the plane crashed,” he says with resignation. He hates the thought of parting again so soon. 

“But my plane doesn’t land until tomorrow morning,” Meyer says. When Charlie looks confused, he adds, “At least, that’s what I told her.” 

Charlie glances past Meyer at the suitcase on his floor. His eyebrows raise in understanding, a smile uncurling itself on his lips. “So you—you stayin’ here?” 

Meyer hesitates. “If you want me.” 

“Course I do. This city’s empty otherwise,” Charlie says with his hand still on Meyer’s waist. He smiles and pulls back, brushing past Meyer and into the bedroom. He hoists the suitcase onto the bed with his good hand, shrugging out of his jacket once he has nothing to hide. 

Meyer follows him with a wry smile, watching from the doorframe. “You do know I’m not the sole inhabitant of the island of Manhattan, don’t you?” 

Charle smirks, brushing the bandage with the tips of his fingers. “Nah, just the only one that matters.” 

Everything passes Meyer’s face at once. He opens and closes his mouth, with the ghost of a smile he fights to suppress but can’t. His eyes search for someplace to land, with a blush Charlie pretends not to see in the low light. Charlie smiles though, watching it all. Meyer regains his footing quickly enough, back in control of himself as he crosses the room towards Charlie, wrapping arms around his middle as he looks up.

“Next time, you come with me?” 

“Only if you want me,” Charlie answers. 

“Charlie…” Meyer says with a smile; it’s more than enough of an answer. 


End file.
